"If you think showing me a text will thaw me out, think again. Only a coat could do that."

TOMORROW, my younger sister and I will travel to Notre Dame University for my son’s graduation. But today, we’re on the train, heading towards Hotel Lincoln, Old Town Chicago, and my sister’s tapping in unnerving fashion on her iPad, giving me a beady look from time to time. Not quite the stink-eye but almost.

I know what the look is about; this is the thing about sisters — you understand every single thing they’re not saying, which can be something of a mixed blessing, for what she’s not saying right now is this: I love you. But I know the sort of person you are. Oh Christ, how I know you.

I cannot argue with her; it’s hard to argue this point with someone who’s shared a bedroom with you for years and seen you pee in the bedroom sink at two in the morning, even if it was only once. And who knows, what’s more, that the reason you did this was because you were too lazy to walk down the corridor, take a right, and pee in the toilet like any normal 12-year-old would do.